


Serendipity

by MollyMack



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-10-11 11:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyMack/pseuds/MollyMack
Summary: Despite the war raging in Dublin, Patrick Branson is determined to live and love as he always has, with careless abandon. But life has a surprise for the youngest Branson brother, and fate has an odd sense of humor. Sequel to Skeleton Dance.





	1. Drinks All Around

_Take a drink because you pity yourself, and then the drink pities you and has a drink, and then two good drinks get together and that calls for drinks all around. -_ H. Beam Piper

 

**June 23, 1919**

**Murphy’s Pub, Dublin**

Patrick Branson was feeling sorry for himself, and he didn’t know how to handle the experience.  He was wallowing, he realized in surprise.  This just wasn’t him.  Melancholy was alien to his nature.  Things that would have flattened another man were taken in stride;  circumstances that should have left him frightened or unhappy were safely locked away in his mind and left to fade away.  It had always worked well for him before.  
 ****

So what was the problem now?

No one would have faulted him for being angry at what had been done to him.  The bruises and the headaches were a constant reminder that Ireland was at war, that the innocent were as likely to be caught up in the violence  as those who sought it out.  Two weeks ago he had been walking down his own street, minding his business, when he’d been set upon by a gang of toughs who thought he was in the IRA, and beaten near to death.

That the attack was a case of mistaken identity, that their intended target had been his brother Michael, who _was_ in the IRA, did not help when he couldn’t sleep at night for the pain, or when he forgot mundane things that he should have known.  His new sister-in-law Sybil was a nurse, and she had assured him that the memories would come back;  it just took time.  He trusted her…hell, he was half in love with her…but it was frightening just the same.  

And there it was—the source of one of his problems.  Women.  Since his brother Tom had come home from England five weeks ago with Lady Sybil Crawley, no woman was enough to hold Patrick’s interest.  Sybil was just different, exciting…perfect, and dammit, she belonged to Tom, heart and soul.  They were so in love it was sickening;  neither had eyes for anyone else if the other was in the room.  He loved his big brother with every fiber of his being, but sometimes he was so jealous he just wanted to drown himself in a vat of Guinness.  Which he was trying to do right now, with some success.

He had plenty of time for his new endeavor.  He’d been out of a job before the attack, and now he was next to useless until he healed.  He was ashamed that he wasn’t pulling his load in the family, even though he knew they didn’t fault him for it, given the circumstances.  Everyone needed to be productive in order to make ends meet.  But he couldn’t work, and that was all there was to it.

So…ticking off his problems in his head…he had no girl, no job, and no hope that either of those things would change anytime soon.  Well, that was not strictly true, at least not the first item.  He had more women than he knew what to do with.  He was currently seeing three girls, none of whom knew about the others.  Before the attack, keeping them apart and appeased had been the only danger in his life, and since the attack they all wanted to mother him.  God knew, if his actual mother knew about all this there’d be another sort of attack, one which he’d be unlikely to survive!  Claire Branson did not play.

Besides, none of his three girls were at all like his sister-in-law.  They cared about fun and looking pretty, which had been fine with him—until Sybil.  She was beautiful, sure, but also brave, and the most ambitious woman he had ever met.  In fact, the only woman he’d met who had come close to measuring up to her was her sister, Edith.  Lady Edith to you, lad, he told himself.  They had met for the first time two days ago at Tom and Sybil’s wedding, and had hit it off right away.  She was pretty, and smart, and he had sensed a vulnerability in her that he found charming.

They had spent most of the wedding party together, swapping stories and drinking.  Oh, how that woman could drink!  He’d told her that she must have been an Irish changeling, the way she could down a pint.  She’d taken it as a compliment and challenged him to a contest.  He’d told her about his crazy sisters and their escapades.  She’d invited him to England to be her chauffeur, which was her little joke—that had been Tom’s job, before he’d fallen in love with Sybil and stolen her away to Ireland.  They’d laughed, a lot.  All in all, Patrick couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun. 

Oh yeah—and she was four years older than he was.  And an aristocrat.  So that was that.  Plus, she was gone, back to England and her posh lifestyle.  He was sure that _Lady_ Edith had already put Sybil’s funny little brother-in-law with the mangled face and rainbow of bruises into her scrapbook of amusing memories.  Shame she hadn’t met him at his handsome best.  Shame he wasn’t rich.  Or English...wait, no!  He’d be damned if he’d ever wish for that!  Too bad he was just a kid.  A poor, ugly, swollen Irish toad of a kid.  He took another swig of his ale.  This feeling sorry for yourself thing was getting easier by the minute.

 

**June 24, 1919**  

**Luxury Flat, Dublin**

Tom Branson was sulking.  He knew it, Sybil knew it;  he would be surprised if everyone in Dublin hadn’t noticed the scowl on his face.  The only one who seemed impervious to his mood was Sybil’s granny Martha.  This was the third flat she had dragged them to;  the woman was tireless!  And Sybil wasn’t helping.  He might have expected a little support from his loving wife, after all.  Where was all that “You know I don’t care about all that nonsense?” and “I want us to make it on our own” stuff when it counted?  

What had happened to her? he fumed.  She knew that none of the flats Martha had chosen were anywhere in the vicinity of affordable for them.  They were located in the best part of town, in an area he had never even been to in his life.  The first one had had four bedrooms and two baths, for God’s sake!  And the next two were nearly as dazzling.  He did not want to be bought by the aristocracy, damn it, but that was where this was headed, for sure.

“Now, I think this might be the one,”  Martha was saying, as they took the lift to the third floor.  Yep—the damn place had a lift!  

“Mrs. Levinson,” Tom tried again.  “Sybil and I want to live simply, and we simply can’t afford something like this on our salaries.”

“Oh, pish!  Didn’t I make that clear?  This is my wedding gift to you!  You won’t be paying for a bit of it!”

Tom ground his teeth, thinking of the reactions of his family and co-workers when they discovered his new address.  He could feel his manhood draining away through his boots.

He looked at his wife in desperation, but she didn’t notice.  She and her granny were discussing some obscure aspect of the architecture that he didn’t even understand, corbels and mouldings and whatever.  He groaned.  She must be having second thoughts about marrying so far beneath her, now that she had seen how her own kind lived in Dublin.  He went to the huge window of the empty flat and pressed his nose against the pane.  He was trapped.  

A beer truck went by on the street below.  Tom wished he had a beer…or two.  Or three.  Normally he wasn’t much of a drinker, never having had the time or the money to spend in the pub, but at this moment he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in a pot of ale.  The agony wouldn’t last long, and he’d be rid of Sybil’s granny.  He would miss Sybil, but she’d be better off without him.  He knew he was being ridiculous, but he was enjoying his misery too much to quit the exercise. 

When Martha Levinson had arrived at the wedding party and announced that she’d be finding them the grandest flat in Dublin, he’d thought she was exaggerating.  Besides, he had been preoccupied with other things that night.  But then she’d shown up the next day and informed them that on Tuesday she would pick them up bright and early for their adventure.

No one seemed to resent this “gift” like he did;  even Sybil seemed to think he was overreacting when he’d whined—all right, yes, he had whined— that he would feel like a kept man.  Strangely, it was his new father-in-law who had offered the most support, before he had gone home to England.  

“Listen, Tom,”  Lord Grantham had told him seriously, “I understand that you want to support Sybil on your own merits, and I admire that.  I’ll admit that I didn’t always feel that way, but I’ve come to know you as an honorable man.  And I know that is one of the things my daughter loves in you.  

“Having said that, there is absolitely nothing you can do to stop a runaway train, and if you thought Violet was a juggernaught, you haven’t seen anything like Cora’s mother!”

He clapped Tom on the shoulder.  “So give it up, and save your energy for a battle you can win.”

Tom turned away from the window in time to hear Martha say, “So, this is it, I think!  Not too far from the hospital and that place you work, Tom, and enough room for a family.”  She leered at them.

He looked at Sybil, saw her sparkling eyes.  “Tom?”  she said softly.  “It is lovely, isn’t it?  Do you like it, even a little bit?  It’s all right if you don’t, we’ll find something else.”  What was he supposed to do, seeing the hope in her eyes?

“Sure, darlin,”  he said, his tone that of a man resigning himself to the gallows. “It’s grand.  Thank you so much, Mrs. Levinson.”

She beamed at them.  “Good.  Now, I know you two have to go back to work, so I’ll just take care of ordering the furniture you’ll need to start.  You must have a couch, chairs, a dining room, and of course the bed…”

“No!”  Tom and Sybil exclaimed in unison.  “We already have a bed!”

 

**August 22, 1919**

**London**

In any family with three children, there is a middle child, one who can feel lost in the shuffle and overlooked, and the result is often a lack of self-esteem.  In the Crawley family that child was Edith.  If she ever had children, she told herself, she would have one or two…or four.  Never three.  But considering her luck with men, that was unlikely anyway.  
 ****

At the moment Lady Edith Crawley was staring at her reflection in the champagne glass in front of her, wishing the liquid was Guinness.  At least the Edith in the glass looked bubbly, she thought.  She glanced at the elegant gentleman sitting across the table from her at the Criterion and sighed.  He looked bubbly too.  In fact, he hadn’t stopped bubbling since they had arrived.  She wouldn’t have been able to get a word in if she’d wanted to…which she didn’t.  

Her escort was a minor peer, a friend of a friend of Mary’s, and Edith suspected that her sister knew right well how horrible he was.  How could the man talk so much without taking a breath?  This dinner had lasted a year at least already;  she would soon know more about this pretentious ass than she knew about herself…or she would if she was listening to any of it.

She took another indelicate swig of the champagne and let her mind wander.  Lord Pomposity would never notice, enthralled as he was in his description of the many hunt victories for which he was apparently famous.  In her imagination she was driving around the track at Brooklands, her scarf blowing in the wind, leaving the other (all male) drivers in her dust.

Her racing suit, designed of course by herself, was the epitome of current fashion, perfectly matched to the green of her race car.  Edith remembered having read somewhere that every country had its own racing colors, and Britain’s was called British Racing Green.  She looked good in green.  It reminded her of Ireland.

Ireland.  Her thoughts snapped back to June, to Sybil’s wedding in Dublin and two of the most wonderful weeks of her life.  The excitement, the danger, the _differentness_ of it all had intrigued her more than she had thought possible, and leaving had been painful.  She missed her sister.  She missed the music and the informality.  She missed the local ale and the feeling of courage it gave her—a feeling that had dissipated as soon as the ferry had docked at Holyhead.  

Back home in her own luxurious room, surrounded by wealth and privilege, she had begun fading, wilting again into the person she hated and feared.  That petulant, whiny brat, the woman at every party who was destined to be a spinster and embraced it her fate.  The one who invited Mary’s ridicule and spite because she deserved it.  

In Ireland, Edith had blossomed.  She had begun to think she could _do_ things, accomplish something with her life.  She envied Tom his new job as a journalist and the joy it gave him.  She applauded Sybil for her courage in seeking a position as a nurse in a country that hated people who spoke with her accent.  She admired Tom’s family for persevering when money was always scarce.

She knew that they struggled sometimes to make ends meet.  Tom, usually the smartest person in any room, had been unable to go to university after his father died, instead entering service in order to help his family survive.  His mother worked long hours as a seamstress in order to feed and clothe six children.  They all pitched in;  it was the way of life in working class Dublin.

Well, except for Patrick, currently unemployed.  Edith’s mouth curled upward in a rare smile at the thought of Tom’s youngest brother.  Such a funny boy;  he’d kept her laughing during Sybil’s wedding party, bantering with her as if she were the most interesting person he had ever met.  Despite the myriad bruises and injuries that currently deformed his face and crippled his body, she suspected that he was as handsome as his older brothers, Tom and Michael, and he certainly had charm enough for all of them.  There was just something about Patrick…

The smile disappeared.  What was wrong with her?  He had been kind to her because she was drinking alone at a party.  Poor, pitiful Edith.  He’d felt sorry for her;  that was all it was.  Patrick Branson was worlds apart from her in every way possible, and she was not Sybil, able to overlook that fact.  Unlike her sister and their former chauffeur, she and Patrick had nothing at all in common.  This meandering just showed how pathetic she’d become.

Besides, he was at least four years younger than she, a baby.  She must seem like a faded maiden aunt to him.  A sad, tired old biddy.  And wouldn’t Papa have apoplexy if he knew that another of his daughters had even been _thinking_ about someone named Branson?  The very thought made her laugh out loud.  She quickly took a gulp of her champagne to stifle the giggle and choked when it went down the wrong way, eyes watering.

Her escort narrowed his eyes at her.  He didn’t think he’d said anything particularly funny;  why was she cackling and snorting in such an unladylike manner?  Mary had told him that her sister was a bit dull but a good listener, and to be kind to her.  She hadn’t told him that Lady Edith  was a tippler!  He had tried, really.  Maybe the discovery of his status and accomplishments was making her nervous.  He didn’t think this date was going to work out;  she just didn’t seem to appreciate who he was.

Edith was almost giddy with relief when Lord Peacock suggested an early end to the evening.  She was busy planning and didn’t have another minute to waste on this boor.  Thoughts of Ireland had rekindled a spark that had nearly gone out, and she was desperate to fan the flame before she died of boredom.  It was time to visit Sybil.

* * *

**A/N:** It is no coincidence that the British racing colors reminded Edith of Ireland.  In 1903 Britain won the right to host an international race.  The problem was, Parliament had decreed that no car could exceed 12 mph, making motor racing illegal anywhere on the island.  So the race had been moved to Ireland.  Thereafter, England’s color was British Racing Green, in tribute to the Emerald Isle.  


	2. Touch of Madness

****_If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything. -_ Paulo Coelho

**August 26, 1919**

**Dublin Docks**

The meeting had been going on for hours, and Michael Branson was tired.  He had put in a full shift at the dockyard today, and had to be back early tomorrow morning for more of the same.  Why couldn’t the IRA just come to a decision and be done with it?  Passion had its downside, and that was the truth.  
 ****

He yawned and quickly covered it with a cough.  This was no time to seem disrespectful.  This meeting was important, and the reason it had dragged on so long was the need to make a statement, and right quick.  He knew that the statement was going to involve violence, and he knew that this time he’d be sucked into it, despite his resolve.

Two months ago, after his brother Patrick had been mistaken for him and nearly killed, he had burned white hot with rage and the need for revenge.  But then he had discovered that the perpetrators had not been the RIC as he had thought, but a renegade group of unionists from Ulster.  He realized that he had nearly been guilty of the same wrongheadedness, had almost gone after the wrong people.  

A conversation with his older brother Tom had made him rethink his motives and his thirst for immediate revenge.  Tom was a newspaperman, and had always been much more level headed and patient than he was.  His brother believed in the cause, wanted a free Ireland as much as he did, but he insisted that the way to achieve their goal was through discourse and diplomacy, not mindless violence.  Michael had agreed not to take part in any missions that involved violence and destruction for its own sake, and he had held fast to that promise…until now.

But he had taken the Oath, and he believed in its veracity.  And now the Royal Irish Constabulary, a fancy name for those bullies hired by the British Army to block the push for independence for Ireland, had made it personal.  Now they had killed someone he knew.

Three nights ago, while he was sitting by his fireside reading a book, a young man had been shot at close range and left to die.  Francis Murphy was not a stranger;  not just another statistic in the guerilla warfare that was the Irish struggle for independence.  His uncle was Colum, owner of Murphy’s Pub and a close friend to the Branson family.  

Colum _was_ family, really, more like a surrogate father than a friend.  He had protected more than one Branson sibling from the follies of youth and stupidity upon occasion, and usually kept their exploits from their mother, Claire.  Tom had held his wedding party at Murphy’s.  Michael’s fiery sister Maire now worked at the pub as a waitress, and everyone was breathing more easily knowing that Colum had her under his watchful eye.

Colum Murphy was quiet and soft-spoken, and like a good barkeep he let his customers do the talking.  But those who knew him well understood that under the humble demeanor beat the heart of a staunch republican.  Many of his customers were members of the IRA, as the Irish Volunteers were now calling themselves, and he had no problem passing on information that would benefit the cause.

But Francis Murphy had been only fifteen years old, a studious lad who had wanted to go to university and become a doctor.  He had kept to himself, eschewing politics for the joy of his books.  Now this brilliant boy would never realize his potential, and the world would suffer as a result.  All because the British Army treated the Irish like second-class citizens, and peopled its regiments with trigger-happy fools who thought that every male over the age of ten must be an IRA militant.  Better to shoot first and ask questions later, was their mantra.

Colum was devastated.  He had closed the pub and avoided contact with everyone…everyone except for Claire Branson, who had refused to be shut out when someone needed her.  She and Michael’s oldest sister Bernadette were keeping him supplied with food and solace.  They were helping Francis’s mother with the funeral arrangements as well, because that was what you did for family. 

“Branson!”  Michael started and returned his attention to the meeting.  There was bound to be a retaliation, and he was very much afraid that he was going to be breaking his promise to Tom.  His brother might even understand;  after all, he loved Colum too.

 

**September 9, 1919**

**The Branson Flat**

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”  
 ****

Tom Branson turned from the desk to look at the naked vision in his bed.  Why the hell wasn’t he already in that bed?  There was nowhere on God’s earth he’d rather be, and nothing he’d rather be doing than making love to his wife.

But unfortunately, God’s earth contained a lovely little island called Ireland, and at the moment this small patch of land was giving him no small amount of stress.  The British government was upping the ante on the war, looting and burning commercial buildings in town in retaliation for IRA strikes which just two days ago had netted them fifteen rifles and killed a British soldier in the process.  And just yesterday, the Dáil Éireann had been outlawed.  Like that mattered.  It was like poking a hornet’s nest with a stick.

Would this guerilla warfare never end? Tom wondered.  His paper trusted him to keep abreast of the almost daily attacks and report on incursions by both sides, but he did have another life, too.  And a wife to bed…

“Ah, feck!” He threw down the papers and stripped off his clothes.  With a running leap, he landed in the huge bed and rolled on top of Sybil, who shrieked and tried to tunnel under the covers.

“Oh, no, you don’t!”  whooped Tom, going after her and dragging her out by a small foot.  “You asked for this.  Whinging and crying, never giving a man a moment’s peace.  I know what you want!”

“Oh, do you?  Well, I think I’ve changed my mind.  I don’t much like your attitude!”  Her bold statement was ruined by the giggles she tried without success to suppress, and after a moment she gave up and began to kiss her way up his arm.  She knew exactly where his weak spots were, and took full advantage of her power over him.  He fought valiently, which is to say not at all, and soon the bed was being given another test of its strength and resilience.

It _was_ a very good bed.  They had bought it in a second hand shop a few days before their wedding, and at the time the primary condition of purchase was that it not squeak, as they were still staying with Tom’s family until they found a flat.  Since it received by far the most attention of any item of furniture or appliance they owned, they had been quite thankful that they had spent most of their savings on it.  It was their first purchase as a couple, meant to stand the test of time…and other things.

Granny Martha had tried to bulldoze them into accepting a new bed to go with this ridiculously luxurious flat that was her wedding present, and Martha was used to getting her way, but on this the Bransons had stood firm.  Tom had given in on their living quarters, but there were just some things that were not negotiable.  And his wife had agreed.  The flat was just a space, after all.  He would have lived in a cardboard box if he had to, to be with Sybil. 

Tom rolled over onto his side, facing his wife. Looking into her beautiful eyes, he still couldn’t believe that he had won this prize, that a woman raised in the lap of the aristocracy was content to spend her nights wrapped in his arms in an old bed in Dublin.  But here she was, and the look in those eyes told him that she was more than content.  Much more.

“What are you thinking?” asked Sybil.

“Oh, just that Ireland is falling apart at the seams, getting more violent every day, and when I’m with you, I just don’t care.  If this was to be my last day on earth, I’d be happy if I could spend it right here, as long as you were with me.  You are my life, mo chroi.”

Sybil sighed, her eyes misting.  What was it about the Irish that everything they said sounded like music, she wondered.  Or was it just _her_ Irishman?  She turned over and moved into him, and as his arms came around her she felt his words engrave themselves on her soul, and knew that it didn’t matter where they were, as long as it was together.

But preferably in this bed, she thought with a smile, as she drifted off to sleep. 

 

**September 13, 1919**   
****

**Murphy’s Pub**

Maire had been as surprised as anyone when Colum had agreed to give her a job.  She seemed to attract trouble without trying, and often acted impulsively without regard for the consequences.  An escapade back in June had nearly gotten her sister-in-law killed, and for awhile she’d been banned from the pub altogether.  

But Colum had a soft spot for Maire.  He’d told her once that she reminded him of his sister Nell,  feisty and pretty and mischievous.  and last month he had offered her a job as a server in his pub, telling her with a wink that he’d feel better with her inside the place with his eye on her than outside doing God knows what.  He was only half joking.  

Maire had been an immediate success.  She _was_ feisty, with a devilish sense of humor, and she had the Branson good looks in abundance, which turned out to be an added benefit with the male customers.  At first Colum was a bit concerned about her popularity, but he needn’t have worried.  Maire was kind and funny, but there was something about Colum’s new waitress that warned her customers not to get too close.

Maire Branson did not trust men—at least, not romantically.  Growing up with overprotective brothers, she had had little experience in the art of flirting and courtship.  She had reached the ripe old age of twenty-one without having had a serious relationship.  Then back in June she had met an attractive man who had treated her like a woman, and had thoroughly enjoyed the new feeling…until he turned out to be a militant from Northern Ireland who was using her to get at her family.

The experience had left her ashamed and afraid.  Ashamed that her stupidity had put the people she loved at risk, and afraid to put her faith in any man, ever again.  The moment a pair of male eyes lit on her long chestnut hair and snapping blue eyes with appreciation, Maire backed off.  Men soon learned that if they wanted this lovely girl to be nice to them, they’d better skip the flirting.  Colum was quite pleased;  it made his job easier if he didn’t have to beat his customers off.

He would not have been so pleased had he known that Maire had begun to use her job to collect information for her brother Michael.  No one was turned away at Murphy’s, and English soldiers and the RIC often came into the pub.  They never realized how much distrust and hatred seethed under the surface, or how fervently their lovely server wanted to pour their Guinness over their heads.  It would have been a waste of good beer, though.  So instead, as she went about her job, she listened.

No one paid attention to a barmaid wiping the table next to them.  They would have been surprised to learn that this particular barmaid was an avowed republican and a supporter of the Irish Republican Army, and that many of the things that were said over that third cup of ale went straight back to Michael and his fellow soldiers.  

It was convenient that Maire and Michael still lived at home;  it made the passing of information easier.  But if Mam had known that once in a while she visited him at the docks when a message was critical, Maire wouldn’t put anything past her mother for punishment.  Mam wasn’t above using the broom to make her point;  her age wouldn’t matter a bit.  

Tom and Sybil did not know about Maire’s side activity;  the truth was, she was afraid her older brother would be disappointed in her for taking such risks, and she couldn’t stand it when he was angry with her.  Besides, she didn’t trust him not to tell Mam “for her own good”.  Kathleen didn’t know, either, nor did Patrick.  It was safer if she kept it as her secret…hers and Michael’s.

As Maire wiped down the tables at Murphy’s Pub, she reflected on what she  had just heard at the table in the back.  It might be important;  it definitely justified a trip to the docks.  She sometimes wondered if she were possessed by a touch of madness, to be putting herself at risk like this…but she knew she wouldn’t stop.  Not as long as there was a chance it helped.

Colum barely blinked when she asked him if she could leave a bit early, but the British officer seated at a table across the room took notice of her abrupt exit.  He looked at the table the pretty barmaid had been wiping down for a rather long time, and then at the one next to it where some of his fellow soldiers were drinking and talking a bit too loudly, and he wondered.  Lieutenant Robert Martin decided that he might want to spend a little more time at Murphy's Pub in the future.

 

**September 19, 1919**

**Johnson Mooney and O’Brien Bakery, Dublin**

Deaglan Collins was going to get fat, if he kept buying cakes every other day from Mooney’s.  His mother and sisters were beginning to wonder where all the pastries were coming from, and if they ever found out his secret, the teasing would never end.  He was spending his hard earned money just to be near a girl who didn’t know he was alive.  

It was pitiful, really.  The girl hardly noticed him as she packaged up his purchases.  She smiled at him like she smiled at every other customer.  He wanted her to smile at _him,_ see him.  Did she even know how beautiful she was?  Her long blonde hair cascaded down over her slender shoulders like a waterfall, and her  aquamarine eyes glowed in a face that should have been in pictures, instead of a bakery in Dublin.  Oh, Lord, if he didn’t get a grip he was going to start writing poetry!  

Kathleen Branson smoothed her hair and smiled to herself as the handsome lad left the store with his bag of oatcakes.  That was the third time this week, she thought;  he must have a girlfriend with a sweet tooth.  She didn’t mind his coming in so often, to tell the truth.  He was very handsome, and it didn’t hurt to look, did it?  His hair was so dark it was almost black, and his eyes the blue of the Irish Sea.  She loved how they sparkled when he smiled.  Goodness!  Since her nineteenth birthday last month, she was turning into a simpering idiot.  If she kept thinking like this, she’d soon be slipping him love notes with his pastry! 

* * *

 

****A/N:** On August 23, Francis Murphy, aged 15, was shot by British soldiers as he sat by the fire reading a book.An inquest found the military responsible, but they denied involvement.As far as I know, Francis did not have an uncle named Colum.But he might have.**

 

**Pronunciation Guide:**

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree

 

 

 

 


	3. A Savage Joy

_Only a fool wants war, but once a war starts then it cannot be fought half-heartedly. It cannot even be fought with regret, but must be waged with a savage joy in defeating the enemy… -_ Bernard Cornwell

 

**September 26, 1919**   
****

**Murphy’s Pub**

Sybil leaned over the counter and said in a stage whisper, “Your new barmaid is a bit crazy, Colum. “I hope you have her on a short leash.”  
 ****

“Hey!” sputtered Tom. “That’s my sister!”  

“Exactly,” said Sybil, leaning back on her stool. “All the Bransons are a bit mad,” she continued in a solemn tone. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”  She gave up her attempt at a straight face and smiled with fondness at her sister-in-law. “And Maire’s the top of the crazy heap.”

“Well,” said Tom. “There is that.”

“I can hear you!” Maire came over, laughing. “And _I’m_ not the Branson who married a posh, stuck-up English aristocrat, now am I?”

“Well,” her brother said, getting into the spirit. He gave an exaggerated look around the pub. “You never know, darlin’. There are a lot of nice-looking English soldiers round here these days. You might fancy one of them!”

Maire turned pale, and then red-faced. Tom had gone too far, as usual.

“Hear me, you!” His sister stabbed a finger at him. “You will _never_ see me within a mile of an English soldier,” she hissed, “except to deliver its beer!  Ever!” And she stalked away, head held high, long hair swinging. As she reached the far end of the room, she spun round again. “Never!” She delivered a round of Guinness to a table of British soldiers, her smile bright and insincere.

Tom was bent over, laughing. It had always been way too easy to send Maire off the ledge. From the time she’d been a tiny curly haired toddler, all her siblings had made it a game to see who could get the little vein in her temple to pop out. Even Bernadette had participated in that one…it was just so much fun. But to be fair, the English soldier comment might have crossed the line, given her overwhelming affection for the species. He tried, without much success, to rein in his mirth. She’d pay him back; no doubt of that. Matter of time.

Sybil was shaking her head at him. “How do you lot do that and get away with it?” She really had never seen anything like it. She and her sisters could never have talked to each other like that. Mary didn’t tease, she jabbed, and it was nearly always mean and meant to wound. Her usual target was Edith, and she was never happy until her middle sister was in tears. Neither of them ever teased Sybil, because they both loved her and needed her to referee their battles. So, no good-natured banter in the Crawley household. How different Tom’s family was from hers! And thank God she had found them before her own siblings had driven her insane!

“You’re right,” Tom gave her a contrite look that she didn’t trust for a minute. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re the only Brit Maire can tolerate, and look how hard you had to work to win her over. It’s lucky she doesn’t have to deal with any more of you!”

“Well,” Sybil gave him a deceptively innocent look. “I’m not too sure about that. I had some news today that might change the balance a bit. She paused for dramatic effect, leaned over and kissed him, and whispered in his ear, “Edith’s coming next week, and it sounds as if she plans on staying for a while. She’ll be in the second bedroom.”

Tom choked on his beer and Sybil patted him on the back. He pulled himself together and mustered a weak smile. He loved his sister-in-law, really he did. He just didn’t love the idea of having her right next door to their bedroom…for _a while._

 

**September 28, 1919**

**Building Site, Dublin**

Daniel Ryan stood in the doorway of the half-finished house and watched his brother-in-law handle the plane. To tell the truth, he’d never have thought Patrick had what it took to work construction. He’d really never seen the boy labor so hard before…or much at all, to be honest. He’d always seemed such a happy go lucky kid who tended to take the “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” mantra a little too seriously. Daniel had been hesitant to give him a job on his crew after his injuries had healed, worried that he’d have to fire his wife’s baby brother when he proved unsuitable, but Patrick was proving him wrong.    
 ****

All his in-laws had surprised him, now that he thought about it. When he’d married Bernadette five years ago, Daniel had already been thirty years old. Even before he had become one in reality, he’d always felt more like a father than a brother to his wife’s siblings.He loved them all with everything he had, but Jaysus, sometimes they could drive a man to drink!

They were all so different. Bern was the ideal wife, sweet and reserved and devoted to her husband and their two children. She wanted to be exactly the kind of mother her own Mam was, and Daniel thought she was well on her way. He knew that she was often frustrated with her younger brothers and sisters.  No republican, she didn’t much care who ran Ireland as long as her husband and children were safe, and this damn war was interfering with her peace of mind on that score.

Michael was just the opposite. He tended to think with his heart rather than his head, and had let his passion pull him to the IRA and a life frought with danger. But it was his choice, and Daniel couldn’t fault him his love for Ireland and the desire to see her free from English rule. He could, and did, fault him for going off the handle and letting his temper get the best of him at times, but since that trouble back in June he had setted down some. Maybe he was finally growing up.

Michael and Maire should have been twins, he mused, at least in temperament and hard-headedness. Both of them tended to act before they thought of the consequences, and he was surprised that Maire hadn’t gotten into serious trouble yet, like the kind that had almost gotten Patrick killed. She had tried to rein in her passionate hatred of all things English a bit for Sybil’s sake, and since Tom and Sybil’s wedding there had been relative peace in the house. He didn’t hold out much hope that it would last.

And then there was Kathleen, the baby, who had just turned nineteen. Generous and giving, on the surface she seemed the sweetest and most docile of them all, but there was a streak of mischief running through that little minx that only came out when she really got to know someone and trust them. Bernadette watched her like a hawk at the bakery where they worked, so she’d be all right.

Tom he knew least of all of them. The second oldest Branson had been off working in service in England when his older sister married Daniel. He hadn’t even met Tom until last June when the lad had shocked them all by bringing Sybil home like a pedigreed kitten he had found and wanted to keep. And keep her he had.

Daniel smiled at the thought of Sybil. He had warmed to her much more quickly than Bernadette had, but then he was a man, with red blood and all, and Sybil had been such a delightful surprise. No airs at all, she had pitched right in, learning to cook and clean…well, clean, at least…the cooking was still a work in progress. And she was a worker. She had defied her family to become a nurse, and then topped that feat off by running away with their chauffeur to Ireland. He shook his head. She fit right in with this bunch of lunatics.

“Dan, come here!” Daniel’s workman’s heart lifted at the eagerness in his young apprentice’s voice, and he crossed to have a look at Patrick’s project. It was a bookcase, which when finished would be built into the wall…and it was simply beautiful. Patrick had planed the wood to a smooth sheen and then carved an intricate vine motif into the cornice. Why, the lad was an artist! Who knew?

“Pat,” he said in surprise, “that’s awfully good! You have a real talent for woodworking, m’ lad!” He ran his hand over the smooth surface. “Where did you see this design?”

“In my head,” Patrick answered with a happy grin. He knew he was just learning and shouldn’t get too full of himself, but he felt warmed by the sincere look of appreciation on Daniel’s face…and the piece _was_ good. Truthfully, the wood had just seemed to _sing_ to him, to tell him what it wanted to be, and it had come alive under his fingers. Those fingers itched now to get back to his task, and he chuckled to himself. He couldn’t remember when he had felt so happy--who would ever have guessed it would come from _working?!_

 

**September 30, 1919**

**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England**

“No, Anna, not that one! I’m not going to any balls!” The maid removed the offending garment from the trunk, and hung it up in the wardrobe with all the other rejected gowns. Anna had accompanied the family in June when they’d gone to Dublin for Sybil’s wedding, but she wasn’t going this time. No, Lady Edith was traveling alone, against the advice of her family. And judging from the size of the trunk, she wasn’t coming back any time soon.  
 ****

She had come home from an evening out about a month ago and announced that she was going to visit Sybil, and it was not necessary for anyone—including a maid—to accompany her. Of course, Lady Grantham had been against it, and Lord Grantham had tried to forbid her, but Edith was adamant…and she didn’t need anyone’s permission. She was a grown woman, she told them, and if Sybil could do it, so could she.

But at least Sybil had been with Mr. Branson, thought Anna. Edith would have no one, and there was a war going on in Ireland. On the other hand, Edith wasn’t running away to _marry_ anyone, so maybe that’s why her family had given in so easily. They never seemed to worry much about Lady Edith…not like Lady Mary, who never went anywhere without at least a lady’s maid. Funny thing about that. Lady Mary was much more confident than her sister; no one would have the nerve to give _her_ trouble. Yet here was Lady Edith, the timid one, haring off to another country all by herself!  Anna shook her head. Aristocrats were a funny lot.

Edith too was wondering about this decision, made in the stifling grip of boredom on a hot night in August. Perhaps this was a mistake, perhaps she had truly gone mad this time. The only thing that kept her from changing her mind and hiding out in her bedroom was that she would be doing just that, if she stayed here—hiding out. And she was tired of being invisible.

She shook herself out of her thoughts before they could spiral down into depression. “Anna,” she said, pasting a bright smile on her face, “what I really need for you to do is teach me how to do my own hair. Something very simple.”

It would have to be simple. There would be no hairdresser in Dublin, she was staying with Sybil and Tom. They had insisted that she move into one of their extra bedrooms for her visit—no, no, Sybil had exclaimed, she would not be putting them out, they were delighted to have her. Edith snorted. Of course they would be delighted to have her underfoot…what newlyweds wouldn’t want an old maiden aunt hanging about while they explored their new life together?

But what her sister and brother-in-law didn’t know was that she wouldn’t be underfoot forever; she would be moving out as soon as she found a flat of her own. And a job. She hadn’t told anyone, and she wasn’t going to.  Not yet. It was her secret, and hers alone, because she wasn’t sure she had the courage to do it…but Edith Crawley was thinking of staying in Ireland.  

 

**October 3, 1919**

**Dublin Docks**

“It’s going to be big, Michael!”  Maire’s voice was low, urgent.  
 ****

“Okay, Maire, tell me again.”  Michael hated it when his sister sought him out at the docks. It was no place for a woman at the best of times, and this was not the best of time. Maybe there would _be_ no best of times for Ireland, ever again.

He shook himself to dispel the feelings of gloom and foreboding. Maire had been valuable to the cause, he’d admit, bringing him information overheard at the pub by British soldiers in their cups. Besides, there was no stopping his wayward sister when her mind was set.  He just hoped she was being careful. This was war, and soldiers were no kinder to a beautiful woman than they were to any other republican when they felt threatened. He worried, all the time.

“Remember what happened in Fermoy?” Maire was almost shaking with excitement. “The looting and burning? They’re talking of trying it here next, in Dublin!” She went on to give her brother the details she had heard this time at the pub.  

Michael watched his sister go, wondering how they’d gotten to this place. He had been so proud back in June, when he’d taken the oath and joined the Irish Volunteers, soon to become the Irish Republican Army. When Sinn Féin had won a landslide victory way back in the winter, they had put in a new republican government, Dáil Éireann, and declared Ireland to be independent from Britain. Everything had been new and glorious, and he had been so proud to be an Irishman. 

But of course it hadn’t been that easy. England was not about to just pack up and go away. The British Army was using the Royal Irish Constabulary as their military arm in Ireland, and the republicans retaliated by attacking RIC barracks and stealing weapons. Since most of the RIC were Irishmen themselves, they found themselves reviled and condemned in their own country. They were ambushed in small groups or in pairs, on patrol or going to church, and they fought back viciously. Republicans were imprisoned by the dozens, often for little or no reason. 

The war was escalating, and innocent citizens were often caught up in the violence, as Patrick had been back in June. Most of the time, no one seemed to be winning. The glory had long since faded, but the determination was as fierce as ever. The Irish Republican Army would fight, for as long as it took. There was a savage joy in battle, in the compulsion to fight until the enemy was driven out or they destroyed themselves in the trying.

Michael remembered Tom telling him that war was a vicious cycle, that the bloodshed just went round and round like a snake eating its own tail.  But he had to believe that his oath meant something.  He had to believe that it was worth dying for.  He just didn’t believe that it was worth his sister getting hurt. He could never accept that. He was going to have to tell her to stop;  it was getting too dangerous.

As Michael turned back into the docks, a man in the uniform of the British Army stepped out of the shadows across from where he and Maire had met. As Lieutenant Robert Martin walked away towards his barracks, he reflected on what he had seen. His instincts were good, and they were telling him that something was going on here. Martin didn’t recognize the man she had been talking to…but it was hard to forget the pretty barmaid from Murphy’s Pub.  

* * *

**A/N:** In December 1918, Sinn Fein won a landslide vote in the General Election and declared an Irish Republic. The first republican parliament, the Dáil Éireann, met on January 21, 1919 and adopted a Declaration Of Independence. The same day, Irish Volunteers (soon to be IRA) killed two Royal Irish Constables in Tipperary, beginning the guerrilla war known as the Irish War Of Independence.

On September 7, 1919, the British government began a policy of reprisals for IRA attacks by looting and burning buildings in Fermoy, County Cork.  There is no historical record of any plan to do the same in Dublin, as reported by Maire Branson, but she has been known to get fired up and exaggerate.

**Pronunciation Guide:**

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


	4. New Horizons

_You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore. -_ William Faulkner

 

**October 4, 1919**

**Irish Sea**

Edith stood by the rail of the _Cambria,_ watching her native land recede and wondering if she had truly lost her mind. The wind was brisk and the spray churned up by the choppy waters of the Irish Sea froze as it hit her face, but she did not notice. Nor did she notice that she was one of the few passengers who had braved the October cold to come up on deck and bid England goodbye. She liked it that way. Edith was often alone, and she had come to think of solitude as her friend. It did not judge, it allowed her room for her thoughts. And right now her thoughts were hardly presentable.  
 ****

Her heart felt tight, as if it were too large for her chest. It hammered against her rib cage, threatening to burst out and read her the riot act. ‘What were you thinking?’ it demanded. ‘I’m not safe here! I could be hurt!’ Her mind was a mass of twisting snakes, coiling and hissing in disapproval. Her stomach…

Edith abruptly bent over the rail and lost the contents of said stomach. Well, now she knew where that part of her anatomy stood on the subject of this trip! Her entire body stood firmly in the “don’t go to Ireland” camp.  

And then a small voice in her mind struggled its way to the surface. It was calm, quiet, and it stilled the clamor of the other voices, shaming them for their fear and cowardice.

_You were not meant to waste away in that huge manor. It was not you. You were meant to experience things, to see the world. You are allowed to be happy. You are allowed to live._

Edith smiled. With a last look, she turned away from the rail to walk to the front of the ferry. A large lump of land, still just a mass of grey on the horizon, was growing larger. It called to her, telling her that it was real, and beautiful, and waiting. Have courage, it said. I am the new horizon that you have been seeking. Remember me? I am Ireland. 

The feeling of calm lasted until the ferry bumped against the pier. The jolt brought all the misgivings up again, paralyzing her where she stood in the queue waiting to disembark.  

“Excuse me, miss, the queue is moving,” said an impatient Irish voice behind her. “Are you planning to get off?”

“No!” she heard herself say, and then, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”  

“Well, then, you should consider moving forward. With your feet.” Titters arose at the speaker’s wit, and Edith flushed.

“You go ahead; I have to check on my trunk,” she said, as she stepped out of the queue. A member of the crew, overhearing, came over.

“Your trunk is already ashore, Miss. “It’s safe. Come now, you can’t stand here.”  

Like a child, Edith let herself be guided back into line, feeling herself go numb as she was pushed forward by the crowd eager to disembark. This is what always happens, she thought in despair. I always let myself be pushed along, whether I want to go there or not. Tears gathered behind her lashes and threatened to overflow. Nothing ever changed. It probably never would.

She sighed, trying to remember that she was a Crawley, straightening her posture as she had been taught by innumerable governesses. She moved to the head of the gangplank, eyes locked forward as if she were going to her execution. Edith remembered an outing when she had been about eight and Mama had taken all three girls to London to see JM Barrie’s new play, _Peter Pan._ She’d been so frightened for Wendy when Captain Hook had almost made her walk the plank.  

Well, Wendy, my girl, she thought, I finally know how you felt. Only, there would be no little green-cloaked boy to fly in and rescue Lady Edith Crawley. She was on her own. The only thing that kept her going forward down that gangway was the thought of returning to England, a failure. Going back to Mary’s sniping and the stultifying life laid out for her there. No! she thought. She was _not_ going back.  She was going to have an adventure.

As she reached the quayside, Edith saw that the wharf was thronged with people and motor cars. First class passengers like herself had been disembarked first, and many were being met by well-dressed ladies and gentlemen and hustled into luxurious motors. She couldn’t see Sybil or Tom anywhere.

“Lady Edith?”  An Irish voice, like Tom’s but with a bit more of a lilt, like Tom’s would be if he hadn’t spent six years in England. She turned to find herself gazing upon the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life. Impossibly blue eyes twinkled at her out of a face that belonged on a cathedral fresco. Blond hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and the smile he bestowed on her took her breath away. She felt her heart skip and her stomach flutter. Was he actually talking to _her_? She had never seen this man before, and yet something about him seemed familiar.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. “I guess I _was_ a pretty picture at the wedding, with the bruises and swelling and all.I’m Patrick.”

 

**October 5, 1919**

**Mater Misericordiae Hospital, Dublin**

Sybil wiped her face with the corner of her apron and sighed. Why did things always seem to happen at once? First, she’d burned the toast again this morning, when she had been trying so hard to impress Edith on the first day of her visit. Tom, bless him, was becoming adept at pretending he liked  his toast black. Then she’d nearly missed the tram, which would have made her look incompetent to Dr. Walsh, whom she adored. And now, as soon as she’d gotten in to work, the war had come to call.  
 ****

The war this time took the form of a small boy with a fractured kneecap. Small boys frequently came in to the hospital with broken bones, but it wasn’t usually because they’d been shot.

She stood in the quiet hospital room, so far removed from the horrors of men who were trying to kill each other in the name of God and country, and stared at the small figure in the bed. His eyes were closed, dark circles that should never have existed in one so young exposed under his stubby blond eyelashes. He couldn’t be more than twelve years old, she thought in sudden anger. More than four years of nursing injuries that could shrink the heart, and she was still appalled by the evidence of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man.

She had been told that this lad had been caught in a shooting at Thurles racetrack yesterday…a murder, actually. Two IRA soldiers had followed DI Michael Hunt, chief intelligence officer for the district, and fired two rounds at close range, killing him instantly. The third bullet had gone into the crowd, striking the child in the kneecap. She shook her head; the violence on both sides was becoming so commonplace that it attracted spectators, and sometimes the innocent suffered for their curiosity. But a child!

“Mum?” a small voice spoke from the bed. “Where am I?” Sybil crossed and took his hand in her own. It was a tiny hand, covered by thin, blue-veined flesh that would seem more at home on the hand of an aged person than a child. Poverty. She wonderd how often the child had a decent meal.

“You’re in Dublin, in the hospital, dear. We’re going to take really good care of you.”

“Did they gi’ me ma breeches?” the boy demanded in a panicked voice.

Of all the questions she had been asked by patients, this one ranked right up there with the weirdest. Breeches?

“I-I’m not sure.” Sybil squeezed his hand. “I’ll check.”

“They was gonna gi’ me new breeches!” The child began to cry, deep gulping sobs shaking his small frame. “ _Two_ pair! I saw ‘em! The Brits was gonna gi’ me two pair o’ new breeches for m’old ones, and m’ brothers wouldn’t let them! I never had new breeches before, and they was gonna gi’ me _two_ pair!” He clenched his fists in impotent rage, leaving Sybil shaking her head in confusion.

What was he going on about? This child had been _shot;_ he was going to need surgery if he were ever to walk again, and all he cared about was _breeches_?

She leaned down and whispered in the lad’s ear, stroking the long scraggly hair away from his face. “You’ll get your breeches, darling. I promise. Now, what’s your name?” 

“D-Danny, mum. Danny Maher.”

Sybil had never met a male patient who could resist her, and this one was no different. His wails subsided into sniffles and he clutched her hand. By the time she had taken his vital signs and left the room, a pair of wide, adoring eyes following her out the door, she had added another heart to her collection.

That evening, over a dinner of under-cooked potatoes and charred bacon, Sybil told Tom the story of Danny Maher and the breeches.

“Seems Danny’s brothers were carrying him to the Dublin train because the doctor couldn’t remove the bullet and he needed an x-ray at the Mater. When his father and some of his uncles got him to the station, the RIC were waiting, demanding that Danny’s bloody breeches with the bullet hole be surrendered as evidence.

Tom took a break from gnawing at his potato and asked, “But he’d be half naked, wouldn’t he?”

“Exactly. How are your potatoes, darling?”

“Mmmph, oh, grand, they are.”

Sybil pinned him with a suspicious glare, and then went on. “Anyway, there was a stand-off while the RIC discussed whether it was right to strip a child of his short pants, and eventually one of the officers was sent away to buy him a new pair of breeches. He came back with two.”

“So all’s well that ends well,” said Tom. “Poor kid probably only had the one pair to his name, before.”

“But that’s just it!” said Sybil. “The stubborn uncles refused to back down and give them Danny’s ruined pants, so the constables eventually let him keep them and go on his way. Poor kid had to watch his new breeches disappear from sight as the train pulled away. He’s devastated. Sometimes you Irish are so hard-headed!”

Tom, whose wife was the most hard-headed woman he’d ever known, deemed it wise to keep his counsel, and continued to crunch his bacon.

“Well, he ventured finally, “that’s a real shame.”

“Not really, darling,” his wife answered with a serene smile. “We’re buying him two pairs of breeches.”

 

**October 6, 1919**

**Murphy’s Pub**

Evan Langdon sat with his chin cupped in his hands, staring. He knew he was staring, knew it was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it. The girl was just so lovely! Evan had been haunting Murphy’s every time he could get away from his duties at the barracks, after the first time when some of his friends had told him that the beer here was great and the proprietor treated soldiers better than most in Dublin.

The barkeep might have treated British soldiers fairly, but the same couldn’t be said for his beautiful barmaid. She didn’t go so far as to insult them, but she made her feelings evident enough. I’m Irish, her tight lips said as she took their orders. We don’t want your kind here, her brilliant blue eyes announced as she plunked their orders down with a little more force than necessary and flounced away, her long chestnut hair flying.  

Evan knew he didn’t stand a chance with her. He was everything she so obviously hated, and he understood. He had been posted here to help keep Ireland safe, according to the recruiters. That was the reason he had joined the army in the first place—to fight the Great War, to keep the world safe. His mind cringed at his naiveté.

Evan Langdon was one of history’s misfits—a soldier who was an idealist. He had been training to be a doctor back home in Cornwall, working long hours and volunteering at the local hospital when he could. He would have been content to continue an academic life…until his younger brother enlisted in the army and went off to France. George was killed in the first months of the fighting, one of the nameless thousands who bled out their young lives on the fields of the Somne. The day Evan got the news he put his books away and joined up, determined to make his brother’s sacrifice mean something.

And he had. He had joined the medical corps and worked in the field hospital, sometimes driving the ambulance that picked up the injured on the battlefield. Every one of those men might have been his brother, he thought, and he wasn’t leaving one of them behind. It was dangerous but useful work, and he’d gotten a reputation as a man who could be counted on, someone who had his comrades’ backs when the going got rough.  When the war ended, he had stayed on. He had seen too much to go back to his books and his sleepy little village. He believed in his country and in her army.

And then he’d been posted to Ireland. The Irish were being victimized by radicals, vicious criminals who vandalized their own people and killed for the pure enjoyment of it, his superiors said. The Irish people would welcome the British army, he was assured—maybe not at first but when they came to understand how much Britain could do for their battered country.  

He should have known better, of course. He was a scholar, he’d read about the way the Irish had been treated by his country during the potato famine less than a hundred years before. What made him think attitudes on either side would have changed since then? What had his countrymen done to change them? Most of his fellow soldiers looked down on the people of this beautiful island, considered them inferior creatures who deserved little respect. And the Irish looked back with unconcealed hatred.

As for the so-called radicals—the IRA—he had seen no evidence of wanton destruction or cruelty to their own people—quite the contrary. In his opinion they were patriots, pushed to the limits of their endurance and fueled by pride in their culture, their language and their fervent desire to be left alone to run their own country. They were fighting for their very existence as Irishmen. He rather admired them.

Of course, he could say nothing of these thoughts to his fellow soldiers. He kept to himself and went about his duties, but he kept his eyes open.  And he hated what he saw. When his tour of duty was up, he was leaving Ireland and the army. It had soured for him and he was through. He would go back to Cornwall, finish his training, and become a doctor.

But that was before he had seen the true beauty of Ireland, in the person of one feisty barmaid at Murphy’s Pub. Now he was not so sure about leaving. He wished he was just another bloke who was free to talk with her, get her name, earn that wonderful smile she awarded the locals who teased and flirted with her. She never got too close, even with them, but at least she gave them the time of day. He would never get that, not so long as he wore this uniform and spoke with a British accent.  

He sighed, and put his chin in his hands again. A man could dream though, couldn’t he?

Maire bustled from table to table, seemingly unaware of the scrutiny from the young man at the corner table. But she was female, and a girl always knows when she’s being watched. She sneaked a look out of the corner of her eye. Yes, he was staring at her. Again. Damn British lout! He was in here an awful lot, usually by himself. He was polite, she had to admit that. And actually quite handsome—for a Brit. When she thumped his beer down in front of him, he ignored the hostility and thanked her softly, always giving her a smile to answer her frown. He had a lovely smile, and his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when…

Jaysus! What was wrong with her! He was the enemy! She had no business noticing his eyes, or his smile. She shook herself, remembering the last time she had fallen for a nice-looking face and a charming smile, and hardened her heart. He was a man, and he was British. That was enough to damn him to eternity in her book.

* * *

 **A/N:**   In December of 1904, JM Barrie premiered his new stage play, _Peter Pan, or the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up,_ in London.  The story of the baby who fell out of his pram and flew off to NeverLand to live among pirates, mermaids, fairies, Indians and lost boys became an instant sensation, and Barrie later adapted his play into a novel, published in 1911 as _Peter and Wendy._ Edith Crawley and her sisters might very well have attended the play as children.

The story of Danny Maher and the breeches is true, although it happened four months earlier than in this story.  It was reported in the _Irish Times_ as one of the most bizarre stand-offs of the Irish War of Independence.  And Danny was indeed treated at the Mater.  Personally, I’d like to think Sybil was his nurse!

**Pronunciation Guide:**

Maire - my + ra

 


	5. Moment of Change

_I've come to believe that in everyone's life, there's one undeniable moment of change, a set of circumstances that suddenly alters everything. -_ Nicholas Sparks

 

**November 5, 1919**

**The Branson Flat**

Edith lay in her bed, listening to the early morning activity in the flat.  Tom and Sybil were bustling around, getting ready for work, laughing and teasing each other.  She sniffed.  Sybil had burned the toast again.  Her sister was such a quick study at important things like suturing a wound or delivering a baby, but for some reason she continued to struggle at mundane tasks like cooking.  Not that she herself would know the first thing about how to make toast, she snorted.    
 ****

The Crawley girls had been raised to marry peers and have children.  Good posture and the ability to direct servants had been the defining characteristics of their education;  small wonder that her sister was struggling.  But she never gave up, never lost faith that one day she would serve Tom a three course dinner fit for a king with her own little hands.  Not for the first time, Edith marveled at her sister’s tenacity and unflagging hopefulness.

Of course, it helped that her husband was such a good actor.  Tom pretended that every attempt was a major achievement, every piece of charred carbon just the way he liked it.  Of course Sybil knew he was lying through his teeth, and she probably knew that he took lunch at the pub more often than necessary, but she appreciated the effort and loved him the more for his deceit.  Those two had rose colored glasses affixed to their faces;  they were so much in love that Edith didn’t know how much longer she would be able to stand the happiness.

She had been here a month, and she no longer worried about being in Tom and Sybil’s way…this flat was so huge that they could go all day without running across one another if they wanted to.  That Granny Martha!  She did not mince around when it came to spending money on those she deemed worthy.  Edith rather enjoyed watching Tom’s discomfiture at the opulence of this place.  Served him right, running off with her sister like that.

The door to the flat slammed, and quiet settled down like a mantle around Edith,  leaving her alone with her thoughts.  She had gotten nowhere with the grandiose plans she’d made before she had arrived in Ireland. It had been silly to think she could get a job—doing what, for heaven’s sake?  She hadn’t given up the idea;  neither that nor a flat of her own, but she wasn’t thinking about those things today.  No…today was special.  Today she was meeting Patrick for lunch.  For some reason, the thought made her giddy with anticipation, and at the same time left her quivering with anxiety.

She hadn’t seen him since the evening she’d been invited to the Branson home for a dinner to welcome her back to Ireland.  Nothing like the dinners she was used to at Downton, here it was all raucous banter and good-natured teasing.  She had been accepted without question;  she was Sybil’s sister, and that was good enough for them.  Moreover, she had chosen to come back to them, of her own accord.  Edith had felt so _included_ , she had nearly begun to cry.

But after that magical evening,  she had seen almost nothing of Patrick.  He was laboring for his brother-in-law Daniel nearly around the clock, and according to Sybil this new work ethic was nothing short of miraculous.  In the past, Patrick had gone from job to job like a honeybee, her sister told her, sampling each and never finding one to his liking.  

When challenged, he had argued that he didn’t mind work;  he just liked fun more, and he couldn’t see why the two couldn’t go together.  Tom had snorted and informed him that juggling several girlfriends at a time was not the kind of work that generally paid well, and it usually resulted in disaster, whereupon Patrick had shrugged and insisted that the right job was out there;  he just hadn’t found it yet.

And then he had.  Two months ago, when the doctor had cleared him to return to work, Daniel had taken a chance and put his brother-in-law on his construction crew, and Patrick had fallen in love…with wood.  Now his conversation was all about the mystery in the grain, the beauty just waiting to be set free with the right tools and the right ears to hear it calling.  He had deserted the pub and the girls had deserted him, complaining that he was no fun anymore.  He didn’t care.

The Patrick Branson that Edith had met at the wedding party had been a mass of bruises, body hunched like that of an elderly man, nose swollen and blue.  And yet, he had taken the time to sit with her, to tell her stories and jokes, to make her feel at home in this alien world.  She had liked him very much.  She had assumed that he was handsome, like his brothers—but never would she have believed that under the bruises and the swelling there was this ridiculously gorgeous creature!  The discovery left her shy and awkward;  she no longer knew what to say to him.  Looks shouldn’t matter, but they did, and this new Patrick was just too different.  The easy comraderie of the wedding party was gone.

But now he had sent a message through Tom, asking her to have lunch with him at Murphy’s Pub.  Edith had been to Murphy’s before;  it was where Tom had introduced her to Irish beer, for which he had earned her eternal love and respect.  But the prospect of being there with Patrick had her uneasy and worried.  Maire worked there now, and Edith still was not sure how to take Tom’s fractious sister.  She had been polite enough, but there was a reserve, a coolness there, and Edith  couldn't help but remember the horrible insults she had hurled at Papa not so long ago.  Did she still feel that way?  She wished Sybil could be there today.  She wished she had just a tiny bit of the courage her sister had.  She wished she had not told Patrick she would go.

Then she brightened as she remembered…they had Guinness at Murphy’s.  At least there was that.

 

**November 5, 1919**

**Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

As she went about her rounds at the hospital, Sybil was wondering what to do about her sister.  Edith said she was enjoying herself—but was she?  She really didn’t _do_ anything.  It was a bit frustrating;  everyone in Sybil’s life now worked, hard.  She felt guilty that she’d had so little time to spend with her sister, but Edith didn’t seem to mind.  She just seemed happy to be away from Downton.  
 ****

And that was also odd.  She’d been here a month, and showed no signs of leaving any time soon.  Tom’s family had been very kind to her, but they treated her like a priceless vase that had been given into their care…as if they were responsible for her but didn’t know what to do with her.  For her part, Edith had seemed grateful to be included in Sybil’s new world, and determined to belong.

She remembered her own first days in Dublin, and shuddered.  Edith should be happy that her sister had paved the way with Tom’s family so she didn’t have to suffer the hostility and mistrust that she herself had faced just because she was English!  Darling Tom had tried to be a buffer, to show his family that his fiancée was different, but the hatred that ran through Ireland at the British ‘invasion’, as they saw it, was ingrained in their culture, and for good reason.  

She wondered if they ever would have come round if it hadn’t been for the attempted murder of their brother, and the part Sybil had played in his remarkable recovery.  But for that drama and the bizarre happenings before…and during…her wedding, she might still be an outsider.  And how bleak her life here would have been!  

Before Tom, she had known nothing about what it meant to be Irish, to be dominated and subjugated for your religion and your language.  Encased in her cocoon of British nobility, she had never even met an Irish person, had thought herself forward-thinking, a real rebel, because she believed in women’s rights.  She had known nothing about suffering, about the vast gulf between the aristocracy and the poor.  She had been so blind.

She wondered, for the hundredth time, how Tom had ever come to love her, coming from such a hotbed of loathing for her kind.  She had only seen him explode that one time when he was their chauffeur, when she had made the childish comment, “I know we were not at our _best_ in Ireland”, only to have him spit out the story of his cousin Eamon’s murder during the Easter Rising.  She really had been sure he hated her then, and had experienced a desolation at that moment that had enlightened her for the first time as to how serious her own feelings for him had become.

But he hadn’t hated her.  Tom was the most forgiving, the most genuine person she knew.  She should have trusted him, should have known that he was too honest to let a moment’s anger and passion change his feelings for her.  She should have understood the depth of his love when he had first proposed in York.  Should have said yes.  

She shook herself back to her duties.  Thinking of Tom always made her mind wander.  Back to what her life might have been if she hadn’t realized that she loved him as he did her.  She had told him she was ready to travel—a silly thing to say, but the simple truth.  It was the moment that her life had truly begun, the one that had changed everything she had once believed and taken for granted. “You’re my ticket,”  she had told him, and the look on his face would be embedded in her heart forever. 

She sighed.  That was what Edith needed—someone like Tom to come along and change her life.  But there was only one Tom.  She chuckled to herself, remembering another conversation at Downton, with her granny Violet.  “I will not give him up!”  she had snapped, stamping her foot.  And she hadn’t…he was hers.  Sybil was very much afraid that Edith was on her own there.  She’d just have to find her own hero.

 

**November 5**

**Murphy’s Pub**

“So, Pat, haven’t seen you in here for awhile,”  said Colum.  “Heard you were working, but didn’t believe that!  What brings you back into high society?”

Patrick flinched at his words.  Wait till Colum saw his lunch date!  He was debating the answer to that question, wishing he’d never asked Edith to meet him here.  High society, for sure;  what the hell had he been thinking?  And why had she even agreed to come?  Probably the prospect of a pint or two, if his guess was correct.

When he’d picked her up at the ferry last month, she had been shy and reserved,  had barely said a word all the way to Sybil and Tom’s flat.  Nothing like the woman he remembered from the wedding party.  That one had been fun.  They had traded stories and teased each other all evening, laughing and sharing copious amounts of Colum’s fine ale.

And then when they’d met again a few days later at Mam’s for a welcome dinner party of sorts, she had barely looked at him.  He wondered if he had imagined the woman at the wedding party, conjured her up out of his own boredom with the girls he was used to.  She was just as lovely as before, and he glimpsed that beautiful smile when she joked with Tom or Sybil, but there was nothing there for him.  The woman he remembered was gone.

He was jerked out of his glum thoughts by an intake of breath at the table next to his, and looked up to see Lady Edith standing in the doorway.  In this environment she was a picture of gentility, like a spring flower peeking up in a farmer’s field, rare and precious.  He felt a sudden pride that she was there because of him.  Pride, and a surprising stirring in the region of his heart. 

Pinned in place by all the faces looking at her with curiousity, Edith’s  eyes darted around the pub in panic;  she looked like a deer poised to flee.  Patrick jumped up and crossed to her before she could do so, pasting on his best smile, and received a tremulous one in return.  Christ, she was beautiful, he thought.

Moments later Lady Edith Crawley sat across from Patrick Branson, wondering if she should have come.  She had never seen anything like him;  she felt as if she were drowning in his blue eyes…losing herself.  It had taken everything she had to keep her eyes off him at the Bransons’, but here there was nowhere else to look.  She was adrift, and it frightened her.

“How ‘bout a glass of God’s finest?”  he asked.  “I seem to remember that you and Lord Guinness were quite good companions.”  She blushed, he laughed at her, and just like that, they were friends again.

From there the conversation flowed, as did the beer.  Maire wasn’t working, thank God, so Edith didn’t have to deal with that distraction.  She felt the worry and self-consciousness drain out of her as she and Patrick picked up right where they had left off at the wedding party. He ordered fish and chips, and laughed at her pathetic attempt to eat out of the greasy paper.  She brandished a chip like a sword and pretended to be offended.  It was as if the strain between them had never been.  

She asked about his new job, and watched his eyes dance as he shared his pleasure in the creation of beauty.  He asked her what she thought of Ireland, and she told him that she liked it very much.  The truth was, she liked _him_ very much.  She needed to stay here longer—maybe forever;  she wanted to spend more time with him, really get to know him.  

Oh dear, was she getting drunk?  But she was feeling a connection, an electricity, and she didn’t think it was the alcohol.  She also didn’t think she was alone in the feeling.  It was new, and lovely, and when she recognized it she felt a thrill of something she had seldom encountered before in her life.  It was joy.

Edith shivered at a sudden chill.  It felt slimy and foul;  glancing out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a table of men in uniform across the room.  Cold eyes glared at her with disgust, but it was nothing to the raw emotion she saw when they looked at Patrick.  Hatred.  Why?  Who were they?

“British soldiers,”  Patrick said in a low, tight voice.  “Don’t look.”

“But why are they staring at us?”  she asked, confused.  “Do they know you?”

“They don’t have to,”  he sighed.  “I’m Irish, and you’re obviously of a higher class than me, so we shouldn’t be together.  They see it as an insult.”

Edith took a sip of her third Guinness, looking at him over the edge of her glass.  “And are we?…together?”  Her face flushed bright red as she heard the words, but it was too late to take them back.   She couldn’t believe she had just said that and, and by his look of shock, neither could he.  It was the alcohol talking—had to be.  Her embarrassment was so acute that she pushed back her chair with a rush.

“I should go.”  Her eyes filled with tears.  She had ruined things.  She would never be able to look at him again.

His hand reached out across the table and took hers.  A shock of electricity passed through her at the touch, leaving her trembling.  Two pairs of wide eyes stared at each other.  Something had just happened here—Edith did not know what it meant, but in that one moment, everything between them had changed.

“Is this man bothering you, miss?”  A rough voice penetrated the fog, and she turned to see one of the British soldiers standing by their table, his posture threatening.

“N-no, thank you,”  she heard her voice, as if from a great distance.  “No, everything is fine…we’re together.”

 

* * *

**A/N:** In April of 1916 the Irish Volunteers, led by the radical Irish Republican Brotherhood, led an insurrection known as the Easter Rising in Dublin.  In one bloody week more than  five hundred Irishmen died, many of them civilians.  The British executed sixteen leaders and imprisoned thousands of Irish nationalists.  These actions inflamed public opinion and led to the eventual victory by Sinn Féin in the elections of 1918, and the beginning of the Irish War Of Independence.  

 

**Pronunciation Guide:**

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


	6. For the Sake of an Idea

_Strange how it is that men never act crueller than when they're fighting for the sake of an idea._ \- Marcel Theroux

 

**November 11 , 1919**

**Offices of the _Irish Bulletin,_ Dublin**

Tom Branson paced the waiting room at the new _Irish Bulletin_ , which was difficult because the room was about the size of his old bedroom at Mam’s.  It was more like walking in circles, but he couldn’t sit still.  He was about to make a decision that would determine his professional future, and maybe his personal life as well, and he was sick with worry about its ramifications.

Tom hadn’t slept well for days.  Ever since he had decided to leave _The Evening Herald_ for the fledgling publication that was just beginning its life as the voice of the Dáil Éireann and the republican cause, he had been second guessing himself.  He was doing well at the _Herald._   He was somewhat of a hero, in fact, since he had broken the story back in June of a band of Ulster Unionists secretly planning to kidnap an English aristocrat and his daughter.

For Tom the story had been intensely personal.  The aristocrat had been his father-in-law, Lord Grantham, and the daughter was Sybil, the love of his life.  Tom and his brothers had foiled the kidnap attempt and the story had made him an icon at the paper.  He had received a promotion and his future was secure.

But Tom’s dissatisfaction with the _Herald_ had been growing for some time.  The editor seemed content to be another voice of the British in Ireland, glossing over the growing violence and taking the safe road rather than risking the wrath of the government.  Tom had begged to be allowed to cover republican issues, had wanted to interview members of Sinn Féin and publish their politics, but had been refused.  It was too dangerous, he had been told.  And yet, when the Dáil had been outlawed, the paper had made it their front page headline.  It was the last straw.

Michael had told him about a new publication just starting up that was going to report on the Irish side of events rather than pandering to the British.  The aim was to get the word out to foreign journalists and newspapers about what was really going on in Ireland,  the first time a newspaper had existed for that purpose.  It was located in a small set of offices and guarded by the Irish Republican Army.  The pay would be much less than Tom was making at the _Herald,_ and the danger much greater.  And Tom Branson was not alone any longer.  It was not his decision alone.

He had talked it over with Sybil as they lay in their big bed.  The bed was where most things of importance took place in the Branson household, so it was logical that such a dangerous career move be discussed there.   Sybil had listened as she always did, until he finished, and then she had turned to face her husband and asked the Big Question.

“This is important to you, isn’t it, darling?  You feel that you need to do something more for the cause?”

“Yes, I think I do,” he sighed.  “But it affects both of us, and our children when we have them.  There will be much less money, at least for awhile, and the paper may not succeed in the end.  There could be physical danger as well;  the British government will not be happy with a publication telling the truth about their bullying of the Irish people.  There could be reprisals.  But I think I need to be a part of it.”

Sybil was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “Do it, Tom.  We’ll make it work.”

He looked at this beautiful woman who had been raised in the lap of luxury and pampered all her life and had given it all up to be with him.  He marveled anew at her courage and resilience.  He had just told her that they were probably going to be even poorer than they were now, and she hadn’t hesitated for a second.  He was glad now that at least he had agreed to the luxury flat that Sybil’s granny had forced on them.  Without such a gift, taking this job would not have been possible.

Her certainty and her faith in him made him realize how much he had wanted…needed…to do this. He was reaching in the dark, and he knew he needed her courage if he were to let go of the known and familiar.  Her courage and love would see them through.

“Why are you so perfect?”  he murmured into her hair.  “How did I ever deserve you?”

“You waited, Tom.  When I was unsure what to do about us, you waited.  You never gave up, and I will never give up on you.  Your heart belongs to me and to Ireland, and we will both be there for you, forever.  Don’t ever doubt it, darling.”

The decision having been made, the activity in the bed had turned to more amorous pursuits, as it always did.  Sybil wondered if Tom’s new status as a revolutionary reporter would make their lovemaking even more adventurous, and then his lips reached a certain place, and she stopped thinking altogether.

 

**November 11, 1919**

**Johnson Mooney and O’Brien Bakery**

“Kathleen!  What is wrong with you, girl?  That’s the second order you’ve mixed up today!”  Bernadette scolded her sister.  She sighed.  She had a pretty good idea what was wrong with Katie;  it was hard not to miss the daily visits by the handsome young lad with the black hair and blue eyes, after which Kathleen was for all intents and purposes useless for the rest of the morning.

Kathleen jumped and flushed.  “Sorry, Bern.  I’m just tired.”

Bernadette snorted, but said nothing.  After all, she’d been that age once.  And the young man seemed the right sort.  He was polite, and after all, it wasn’t his fault if he was all moony eyes over Kathleen;  she was a bit biased, but what red-blooded male wouldn’t be?  Her baby sister didn’t even know how lovely she was.  Still, this situation would bear watching, and it wouldn’t hurt to find out a little bit about him.

Kathleen tried her best to get her mind back on pastry, but it was an impossible task.  She knew her sister suspected that there was something up between Deaglan and her.  She giggled;  he was the only young man—the only man at all, really, who made a daily foray to the bake shop.  What Bern didn’t know, though, and she’d better not find out!…was that Kathleen was ready to take the next step in this relationship.  To actually _talk_ to him, outside of work!

For relationship it was, even if it was nothing but looks and smiles at the moment.  Ever since Deaglan had told her in a shy voice, as she was wrapping his scones with the speed of a sloth, that she was pretty and he would like to go out walking with her some time if she liked, Kathleen had found herself floating.  If she liked!  And here she’d thought he’d had a girlfriend who was the lucky recipient of all those cakes!

It was frustrating, she thought…this new feeling.  She couldn’t tell Bern about Deaglan, because her sister would grill her with questions about his background, his parents, his job.  And she couldn’t find out about all those things, because there were always customers waiting and Bernadette’s sharp eyes missed nothing.  But he must have a good family, she thought;  he was so polite.  He must have a job, too.  Otherwise, how could he afford all the pastries he bought every day?  And he always came first thing in the morning, right after Mooney’s opened.

The truth was, she knew nothing at all about Deaglan Collins.  Nothing except that he was kind, and sweet, and had the most adorable dimple on one side of his mouth when he smiled.  He reminded her a bit of her brother Tom, who until now had been the most handsome man in her life.  Well, Michael was just as good-looking, and of course there was Patrick…but Pat was beautiful, rather than handsome, and not her type anyway.  Her type had black hair, and brilliant blue eyes, and…

“Kathleen!”

 

**November 11, 1919**

**Murphy’s Pub**

Maire was tired.  Murphy’s was overflowing again, lilting Irish accents mixing with raucous British voices in a discordancy of sound that set her nerves on edge.  She wished Colum wasn’t so accomodating, wished he was more like other bar owners in Dublin, who made no secret of their disdain for the riffraff that made up the British army.  They didn’t belong here, swaggering around as if they owned the streets of Dublin.  They had killed his own nephew, for God’s sake!  She couldn’t understand it at all.  
 ****

The RIC was bad enough; Irish turncoats whose presence was barely tolerated by their own countrymen, but the English!  They had begun to send more and more soldiers to “handle” the civilian population, which remained a favorite target.  Much easier to terrorize than the IRA, helpless citizens found themselves harrassed, intimidated, and even killed—sometimes in retaliation for something the IRA had done, often for no discernable reason at all.

The handsome one was here again, still following her with his stupid cow eyes.  But Maire had no time to worry about him tonight.  There was a table in which she had a particular interest, had already overheard enough to know that she needed to give the table nearby an extra wipe down.

Evan Langdon was indeed watching the pretty barmaid, but his motives were not what she imagined.  At least not this time.  He had taken note of the unusual attention she was paying to the table of British officers in the corner, and was wondering why.  By this time he thought he knew her feelings toward his comrades in arms, and in general he was sympathetic.  So why were they getting star service now?  Why was she lingering?  

He knew that  one of them, Lieutenant Martin, frequented this pub almost as much as he did.   He also knew that Martin shared many of his fellow soldiers’ feelings about the Irish—they were barely above vermin;  all of them were revolutionary scum, and the sooner they were properly subjugated, the better.  Robert Martin was a cruel man.  In fact, he was the kind of soldier that gave all of them a black eye.  Evan did not trust him or the men with him for a minute.  So he watched.

Shortly before closing time, Maire put on her coat and left the pub, accompanied by a young cousin of Colum’s who had been assigned to see her home safely each evening.  As Evan watched, the table of soldiers also arose, and followed the two out the door.  He began to have a very bad feeling.  Throwing down some money to settle his tab, he made his way out behind the soldiers, staying as far behind and out of sight as possible.

Maire turned at her corner and told young Cabhan that he could go home;  she was within sight of her door and would be fine.  He hesitated;  Colum had told him to walk her all the way to her door and see her inside.   He was afraid to incur his uncle’s wrath, but he was more afraid of Maire.  She was kind, but he had seen her angry and didn’t want to experience it himself.  So he waved and turned back, crossing the street to avoid an oncoming group of British soldiers.

Maire continued up her street, thinking of what she had heard tonight.  Michael would be quite interested.  It might be nothing, but—

She felt a sudden whoosh of air, and was enveloped in darkness as a blanket came down over her head.  She struggled, kicking and grasping, but there were too many, and they were too strong.  Arms and legs pinned in the suffocating folds of the blanket, she was thrown over a broad shoulder and carried off into the night.  It had taken less than a minute, and the street was empty.

When the blanket was pulled off, Maire found herself kneeling on the floor of a small room facing a group of six British soldiers, all seated in chairs ringed around her.  The only light came from a single lantern placed to the side.  She opened her mouth to scream, only to have one of them produce a cloth and gag her, while another bound her hands behind her back. Their eyes glinted in the light thrown out by a single lantern.

“You have been a bad little Fenian”, said one, an officer by his uniform, in a mocking voice.  Maire’s eyes flashed fire and defiance.  “You have been carrying messages to the IRA, messages describing certain things about our plans and movements.  It has caused us a great deal of inconvenience.”  He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, as if his words were mundane, of no importance.

“What you didn’t know,” he continued in a calm voice, “is that you were followed, and that we have tested our theory by planting false information.”  He smiled, a vicious, obscene twisting of thin lips.  “The resulting activity of the IRA proved that our suspicions were correct, and so now, I’m afraid, you will have to be punished.”  He sighed, as if in sympathy for her plight, but Maire sensed there was no pity in this man.  She felt the first frisson of fear work its way up her spine.

He glanced at his men, and nodded.  One of them reached into a sack behind him and produced a straight razor, glinting sharp and deadly in the light of the lantern.  Maire’s eyes widened, and she began to struggle.  Tears ran down her cheeks and soaked into the gag as she realized what they were going to do.

“Hold her.”  Lieutenant Robert Martin barked.  Two soldiers grabbed her elbows and bent her over, so that her hair brushed the floor.  The one with the straight razor approached and grabbed the mass of curls, wrapping it around his fist.  He was not gentle, and pain battled with fear for supremacy in her mind.  

It did not take long.  All that could be heard in the next few moments was the harsh scraping of the razor’s teeth and the muffled sobs of the young woman.

 

* * *

**A/N:** The _Irish Bulletin_ began its existence in November 1919 and ran as a daily newspaper until December, 1921.  It was funded by the Dáil Éireann as a means to get the Irish side of the story out to foreign correspondents.  Among other reports, it contained lists of atrocities propogated by the British Army.  The _Bulletin_ continued to run several issues a week, despite repeated attempts by the British government to suppress it.

**Pronunciation Guide:**

Deaglan - deck + lan  
 ****

Dáil - doyl

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


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